


She and Her

by Coradeilinae



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Character, Modern Fantasy, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coradeilinae/pseuds/Coradeilinae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My terrible attempt to write a lesbian romance novel. But with modern fantasy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. *BEEP BEEP BEEP*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing note!  
> Previous edition: “This will help with the pain, just touch the jewel when you need it.”  
> New edition: “This will help, just touch the jewel when you need it and the curse will numb your pain.”

It is four in the goddamn morning and you cannot BELIEVE you are awake already. There is soft sunlight filtering in between your shutters, raining down on your uncomfortable bed that sits right on the floor. Fuck that enchanted window. Just fuck it. You reach over and click off the enchantment, and the light in the room is extinguished. Your parents bought it for you when you started your shitty morning barista job at “Nevada Flower's”, Nevada herself being an indecipherable dryad who spends her days cultivating her plants out back of the cafe. “The morning light is good for the soul and helps you wake up easier, faster” or so your mother said, but the damn thing has done nothing but wake you up with the terrible light of the sun directly in your eyes every damn morning. You look over at the alarm clock still blaring at you, it's already 4:10 and you are going to be late if you don't get up right now.

 

Shifting out of bed, you put yourself on your feet creakily and shuffle the ten feet from your bed to the “kitchen” that occupies the rest your tiny loft. You grab the already warm pot of coffee, thank all the gods for magic coffee pots, apply a quick wake up charm and take a swig right from the pot. It is bitter and dark and godawful compared to the stuff you use at work. Even the charm did little to improve the almost-too-burnt almost-too-bitter pot of liquid garbage you just drank, but it's all you can afford. Choking down the pot in a couple swigs, you prep the coffee machine for the next morning's pot barely potable trash.

 

With a taste of literal and figurative bitterness in your mouth, you throw on a t-shirt, coffee stained jeans, and a ratty hoodie, and head out the door. As you head down the stairs you can hear Gorinsson working away, always in his little shop, always with his head over a trinket, always bottling this curse or that enchantment, always, always awake. The constant hissing and sparking of his magical recycling shop echoes through the stairwell, and out into the tepid air on the street. You only live a couple blocks from where you work, in a squat suburb of Darthill, which of course is not on or near any hills. Crossing over a couple streets, you can see lights turning on in the second and third floor windows of a few buildings around you. Poor fuckers who are about to be your customers.

 

The front door of Nevada Flower's is a glass door that's been painted with so many flowers and leaves that it can only barely be seen through. Theoretically the door can be opened with a simple spell that Nevada taught you on your first shift, but you always struggle with it and just can't be damned to learn a stupid spell when keys are just as fast. You open up the door, and get completely flooded with the warm smell of baking, roasting coffee, and a spritz of citrus. No matter how grouchy you start the morning, Nevada's baking is a boon that keeps you working long after you tire of customers.

 

Left on the counter for you is a slip of paper reading “You're almost late, but I know it's because Conjunctio is the judge and Reubus and Puella are the witnesses. I'm sure you're very excited to hear that.” You never have a clue what these notes mean, but you're sure that she means well. You pocket the note and stuff a croissant in your mouth, almond this morning. Lined up on the counter by the grinder are six and a half bags of coffee beans and you know without a doubt this will be a very long day. Nevada is never wrong with her coffee bag guesses and this is the most you've had lined up in months. As the first morning light piles in over the short roofs and through the window, you flip chairs over into their homes beside tables, wipe down said tables, and unlock the front door. As you wait for the first of many groggy customers to arrive, you grind and brew the first batch of coffees and teas.

The morning rush is constant and brutal. Lini, your fancy elvish coworker, arrives and they run the bar as you run till and pour, but even the two of you can barely keep up with the barrage of customers asking for their enchanted coffee, lattes, and teas. You rush back and forth in a complete blur, pouring this, charming that, moving moving moving until the last bleary eyed person in the line gets their “focus-me” tea and you can finally settle. The pastry case is nearly empty and you're down to one and a half bags of coffee, looks like a nice easy afternoon. You make yourself busy busing tables and chatting with one of the elderly dwarfs, Thisit, who comes in at ten am every day to drink a “luck rune” latte. As you wipe down a table near the front, you look out into the now fully lit day time and see people of all types bustling about, and one person leaning against the outside wall of the tattoo shop across the street.

 

You've seen her in here a couple of times before, in the morning. Patrons in rushes just blur by, but she always stands out, even in the decidedly eclectic crowd of customers you serve every day. She's a pixie, with opalescent wings that glitter in the sun, and fold away under blue and brown speckled shells. Her skin a soft bourbon, eyes a dark goldenrod, she always looks so fierce, so large, especially for someone just four feet tall. Her tattooed arms folded across her chest, one sleeve a deep forest, with glinting sunlight filtering between tall silhouettes of trees, the other a series of ever-changing red shapes shifting over and under each other. Gently between two fingers rests a lit cigarette in a hand rolled red wrapper, fragrant an- you have been standing completely still in the middle of wiping a table, staring vacantly out the window for some time now. The old dwarf is chuckling softly while he scrubs some latte foam from his large beard. You blush madly and go to hide behind the counter and put yourself together.

 

Midday approaches and Nevada finally emerges from the backroom, smelling of wet earth and roasting coffee. She is braiding the branches that make up her hair back into what is turning into a small shrub at the end. She grins at you, “Conjunctio no? Quite red pour tu, amis, quel suprise.” and walks out front to sit with Thisit. Soon the air is filled with french from the barky dryad and the midnight-toned dwarf. Lini jabs you in the side with a strained whisper “Hey good job, Eva” and you feel like the only one left out of an inside joke. You give them a confused face, and they snort gleefully and get back to cleaning the bar. It is only now that you notice that they have dyed their hair a brilliant red and cut it lopsided, leaving Lini with hair that looks like a.... rose? The attempt was not as flattering as probably thought, but they certainly love it regardless. The rest of your work day consists of intermittent customers and daydreaming, much to your embarrassment.

 

Right before close an elf walks in, middle-aged, greying but still tall and proud. You step over to the till and go through the usual bit, hi how are you what can I get you etc, and he orders a small unenchanted green tea “for the simple taste.” As you hand him his tea, he leans over the counter and eyes your neck, and you freeze up.

 

“You know, I could remove this cursed necklace for you.” He says, with the airs of a landed gentry. You flush, blood hot in your face.

 

“It's simple spell, and you wouldn't have to live like this anymore.” gesturing at your body with an air of disgust. You crush his teacup between your fingers, spilling boiling hot water and ceramic chips all over yourself, but you don't notice. The air around you feels icy, but your insides are on fire.

 

“It looks like it's been on for quite a while, but I could have it off in a few minutes and you could go back to being who you really are.” He’s unfazed by the torrent of tea pouring down the counter

You can feel your jaw grinding away, you lose focus, your head is spinning.  
You look him dead in the eyes.  
You push down the nausea.  
You work your jaw, your tongue, your lips, fighting back a snarl  
“I am quite happy as I am, thank you.”

 

He sneers at you, you feel his hatred deep in your gut. “I was only offering to help.” He turns on his heel, and leaves. You feel everything come crashing back into reality, your body shaking, the edges of tears in your eyes. Lini is guiding you to a chair, they seem so panicked, you wonder why they are so worried about you, you're just a bit dizzy, you're fine. Nevada brings you a piece of stick from a plant and rapid-fire french is coming from her mouth that you don't understand and she places it on your tongue and suddenly you notice that you aren't in pain anymore, you gaze ponderously down at your hand, and there is a large chunk of ceramic going in one side and out the other, you hadn't noticed. You hadn't noticed the pool forming on the counter or on the floor. You hadn't noticed. The edges of things get blurrier, there are people rushing in the door, Lini is holding your other hand, you can't see them but you can see them there and Evalyn Shelby her right hand  
Eva look at me you're okay at the we'll take Oh Ar 

 

You're awake, you have been awake, you will be awake. The burning white room is vague and precise, you are vague and precise. You begin to remember, your hand is aching. It is wrapped in a bundle of gauze and you can't lift it more than an inch. You fall back asleep.

You stand, shovel in hand, in a valley surrounded by hills. This is a fine place for a well, you must take your shovel and dig here. You sink your shovel deep into the flesh of the earth, turning away dirt to find water quickly filling the hole you just dug, the water keeps gushing forth more and more until the valley becomes a sea, the sea runs over the edges of your palm and you are afloat in a great white sea of cold and warmth and tingling softness. The waves rock you gently back and forth, like someone is rousing you. You take a deep breath to sink under the waves and-

“Evalyn... Evalyn? Hey, good morning, I'm your nurse, Verda.” Gentle speaking tugs you from your slumber, you open your bleary eyes to see a pixie hovering just beside your bed, mostly you see the powder blue of her scrubs and deep magenta of her hijab. She flits from your left side to your right, “Your hand is as healed as we can get it, but unfortunately, as you're human, we can only do so much.” She picks up your right hand, and clasps a small metal bracelet around your wrist. “This will help, just touch the jewel when you need it and the curse will numb your pain.” Your eyes come into focus, you see a little cube of a room, white on white on white. Verda is smiling at the end of your bed, and you work up some strength and ask “Is my choker still on?” “Yes of course, your friend Lini explained the situation to us. We are here to help you heal and be comfortable, Evalyn.” You settle back into your pillow, feeling a bit safer, and fall back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes
> 
> Pour tu - for you  
> Amis - friend, dear  
> Quel suprise - How surprising


	2. She and Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is here! You get out of the hospital only to find the girl of your dreams
> 
> Wow that's gay and trashy I love it.

She and Her  
You are standing in front of a mirror, your choker falls off, suddenly your body squirms and changes shape, sprouting thick fur until you are covered in a dark mat of hair. Your gentle features warp and change until you are a hulking beast, a monster. Something broke your curse and now you're a monster. You're a monster. Monster.

 

The next morning comes with you feeling much more alive, and you are discharged from the hospital. Your right hand is barely functional, and has a deep scar in the heel of your palm that is paired with another scar on the other side. As you try to sign your release forms, you can hardly form a fist let alone hold the pen, and have to resign to making a scribbly mess with your left. The nurse at the station is patient with you, and hands you a bag of your clothes, freshly cleaned and folded. You struggle into your clothes, adjusting to your right hand being nonfunctional.

 

As you walk down the steps from the hospital to the street, you try to orient yourself but you haven't been to this part of the capital before. The towering buildings extend almost all the way to the skydome far above, and the streets are blitzed with a myriad of modes of transport; walking, driving, flying, both the street and the space above are jam-packed. 

You go to reach into your right pocket only to be met with a streak of burning pain, your right hand refuses to cooperate. Pressing on the gem embedded in your new bracelet you let the magic soothe the pain, and awkwardly fish out your keys and Compass-Phone from your right pocket with your left hand. Fumbling with your phone, you eventually manage to open the “Find-a-Door” app, and follow it's directions until you come to a door, just a block away and around a corner. 

It is a small red door, inset into the side of a large brownstone apartment building. You reach for the brass doorknob with your left hand, and it slides open in a way that a normal door just can't. The portal pulls you in and closes behind you, leaving you semi-floating in the center of a circle of many doors. “Dart-hill” your voice wavers as you speak, but the doors understand you and three doors are brought up, red, blue, and unpainted wood. You open up the blue door and step through the shimmering mirror reflecting yourself back at you. You are acutely aware of your choker. You land between two rusty fire escapes in a shady back alley just off the main drag in Dart-hill.

 

You are around the corner from your tiny loft, but instead you walk right past and continue on to work. You figure you should let Nevada know you're back. By the time you walk the few blocks to work, you are exhausted. Healing, magical or otherwise, is incredibly hard on your body and you find yourself settling into the couch at the front of the shop instead of trying to talk to Nevada. A few seconds later, you drift off.

 

You awaken to find your boss pouring you tea, “Alors, little one. You should be at the home, resting! Do not you worry about working Eh-vah,” she stops to charm your tea “you can come when you can, d'accord?” 

You pick up your tea and sip at it slowly. It's warmth and golden honeyed tones tingle your mouth and throat. “Thank you Nevada.” you mumble, as the spell starts to kick in.

“So much rouge for you that day, no? When you're rested, go talk with her Eh-vah.” Nevada brushes your shoulder and begins to walk away “And do not you come back until you do!” and with that she disappears into her backroom and you are left alone in the front. You take another sip of the tea, and notice the flickering gold deep inside, she made you a luck tea.

 

As you finish your tea, you gaze out the front window, seeing people bustling down the street, just like every day. You can't see into the tattoo shop, but you see the open sign in the door. Maybe you could go over and see what it's like in the shop. You've worked across from it for this long, and the employees come in often. It wouldn't be weird, would it? You don't think it'd be weird. Maybe you could get your ears pierced or something, you should probably have a reason to go over. You can't really afford to get anything done but it could be good to look. You've wanted to pierce your ears for a while now, it'd be good to look into it. You spend several more minutes convincing and reasoning with yourself before you stand up, ready yourself, and walk out the door and across the street.

 

You go to open the door with your right hand, and entirely fumble your grip and walk face first into the door, making quite the noise. Your whole plan and all of its reasoning disappears, you open the door blushing madly and you can barely remember why you came. She is sitting at a large glass desk absorbed in a book quite possibly half her size. Her dark green hair falls in front of her eyes, she thumbs a page and starts on the next of the indomitable tome. You walk over to the desk and try to compose yourself. She looks up from the book and right into your eyes. Her golden eyes pierce into yours and you freeze up. She gives you a look.

“Yes?”

You stammer and mutter and blush even harder. 

“Listen, why-ever you're here, you gotta tell me, and sooner than later, I have appointments coming up.”   
You take a deep breath, try to calm down, feel the luck spell in your stomach and “hi-i-work-across-the-street-and-i-saw-you-were-open-and-want-to-pierce-my-ears-i-hope-that's-not-weird-my-name-is-evalyn-hi.” you stammer out all in one breath, then cringe, waiting for laughter. 

“Yeah I knew I recognized you, the cost for one ear is 35, both for 50. Does that sound alright to you?”

Holy shit, you did it. You're having a conversation and, utterly forgetting money, you can get your ears pierced. And her voice, her voice is like crisp bells, ringing and fine and sharp. She remembers you, too! She is talking to you and she is so nice and she remembers you and you haven't replied yet and she is staring at you expectantly. “Oh, uh, yes that sounds fine!” You feel the blush in your cheeks turn from warm to hot again as she gives you a quizzical look.

“Let me check my calendar, I should have a free slot this evening if you want to stick around.” She pulls out her phone and pulls up a bigger screen projection.

You suddenly feel a bit faint, all this excitement is a bit too much while recovering. You finally notice the rest of the shop, and find there's a couch directly behind you. You try to sit down, and find it's much closer to the floor than expected, and free fall the last foot. You let out a shrill squeak as your throw your hands underneath you to catch yourself, forgetting your hand is useless, and collapse to one side. The searing, blinding pain in your hand pairs with the sudden sharp ache in your head, and you find yourself jabbing wildly at the bracelet until a wave of calm and numb washes over you. You feel like you are spiraling down a drain, and the room is spinning so fast, but you are so soft and you can see her eyes, her dark gold eyes, her dark umber skin, framed with dark emerald hair. The world is settling down as the numbness evens over you, and passes, she is there, holding your hand.

There is a cool towel placed on your forehead, you can see pixies flying about anxiously. “Evalyn? Evalyn right? Are you okay?” She is still holding your hand, and that is starting to hurt. 

You fumble the words in your mouth to say “mm'okay, juss hert m'hand.” tugging your hand from hers reluctantly, heavily. 

She jerks her hands back, “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, let’s get you home okay? We can do this when you're better.” 

“m'sorry Iiii can'do thiss t'daay? I wanna'd't'meet you'n m'sorry.”

She grabs a charm from one of the pixies coworkers hovering nearby, and affixes it to your shirt. “This is gonna make you float, and I'm gonna take you home. Can you tell me where you live?” 

You suddenly feel much softer, lighter, finding yourself hovering just a little above the ground. “m'name's Eeeh-vah-liiiiiin, I-i neveh got'cha'name?”

“Farah, I'm Farah. Let’s get you home Evalyn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> Alors - Well, So  
> Rouge - Red, Blush  
> D'accord - Okay


	3. Recovery Rate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third instalment to this story, a solo chapter about the first while of recovering and readjustment

Recovery Rate

Sleep, soup, suffer, repeat. Your next few days are a monotony of the same cheap soup left by your door from Lini, a bushel of apples from Nevada tagged with a host of indecipherable notes, and the same old terrible coffee you drink every morning. The only deviation from this holding your attention is a note written on a red rolling paper, left on your table. 

So sorry about your hand, text me when you’re feeling better  
-Farah

with her number is scrawled along the bottom. You fumble to put her number in your phone, the urge to text her is frequent, but exhaustion and embarrassment win out every time. If you’re being honest with yourself it’s mostly the exhaustion. 

You spend so much time either asleep or too tired to move that even the most basic of tasks take hours to do, and your phone is still a unwieldy brick in your left hand. The thought of the hand cramps and misspells disheartens you, so you try to distract yourself by attempting simple charms. You try over and over to summon up even just the simplest glow charm, but your right hand provides no quarters for your magic.

By the end of the week you aren’t in as much pain, but your hand is still mostly immobile. You decide it’s probably best if you have a doctor look at it before you try doing much with it. You drag out your phone, glance briefly at the laundry list of notifications you’ve neglected this past week and realise you haven’t checked any emails since you got hurt. Scrolling through you find you have received several from the hospital explaining your injury and aftercare, one from your calendar saying rent is due, and one from Lini asking if you are okay. 

You sit on the edge of your bed and anxiously try to decide which email to read first. After scrolling back through old emails to delay the decision, you eventually cave and read Lini’s email first. You don’t think you ever gave them your email but you figure it’s best not to dwell on it. They prattle on a bit about work and how strange it is to have Nevada working the till, and finish off asking how you’re healing and if they can do anything else to help you at all. You write a short reply saying you’re fine, but typing with just your left hand is tedious and you make a lot of mistakes. You go back and correct the worst ones, but it is a lackluster email and you get annoyed with yourself because of it. You hit send regardless and get hit with a wave of nausea and regret in return. You try to push it from your mind and decide what to do next. Rent. You hesitate, then open up your banking app, you look at your savings with a tint of despair, you have just enough to pay your rent. 

You lift up your right hand, turning it over slowly. In this whole week of recovery all you’ve managed is to make a fist and hold your hand steady, but even that is a lot of work. How will you work with this hand? How can you function with this hand? You let it drop to your side, and it rings with a small, sharp pain. 

Looking back to your phone, you press the button to pay your rent, and clumsily type in your password, having to go back to start again a couple times. It processes, and shows you your abysmal remaining balance. A couple cents in your chequing, twenty bucks in your saving. You feel the pit of your stomach fall away, you knew you were broke, but seeing exactly how broke is always terrifying. You need to get back to work soon, or… you don’t know what. You don’t know and that scares you more than anything has in a long time. 

After staring at your ceiling for what feels like forever, you remember you have emails from the hospital that you need to read. You open the first one, and give it a skim-over. It covers how to use your bracelet, what it’s made from and it’s magical interactions. Somewhere in the warning section you find a paragraph stating that you shouldn’t press the jewel more than twice an hour, or you’ll experience extreme drowsiness, light headedness, and numbness extending beyond where it’s needed. You look down at your bracelet, which you have been definitely using more than twice an hour. Oh. Fuck.

Working the clasp with your left hand, you take it off, and immediately a surge of pain scorches your arm, and leaves it limp and immobile. Holding down a wave of nausea, you try to move your fingers, even a little, but there’s nothing. You try to lift your arm and the pain spreads from your hand and encompasses your whole body. Gritting your teeth and cursing through the pain, you try to move your fingers, but your hand does nothing but limply dangle from your wrist. You give up on trying to use it. 

Shaking heavily, you try to put the bracelet back on, but you just can’t hold still enough to do up the clasp. You decide to try draping it over your wrist, and press the gem a couple times to no avail. Okay, deep breaths, steady yourself. You try to control the shakes, try to ignore the growing pain, the waves of nausea, just focus on doing up the clasp. Fuck, why did this have to happen to your good hand? 

After what felt like an eternity of agony and fumbling, you give up. You cannot get the bracelet back on. You feel your heart pounding behind your eyes, you reach for your phone, wrong hand, the pain pouring from your arm and into your body. You feel the static building in your head. You find your phone with the back of your left hand, and try to lift it. It’s too heavy. Spots blossom and explode before your eyes, you call a contact, or you hope you did.  
Darkness fills your vision, a voice calls out from far away, you say something, you said something


	4. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter with a short interchange.

Good Morning

_A bird soars through the air, buffeted by a cold wind. A Bird. You flap your wings, sailing ever higher, the wind ever colder. You are far above it all, near the top of the skydome, a sun warmed sky-blue, that has hung above you your whole life. You can see it closely now, and you see yourself reflected back to you. You are standing in your kitchen, your parents across from you. Your father is caught, mid-turn, to look away from you. Your mother, dead eyed and ashen and frozen, telling you to leave. You remember that fear, you remember that shame, you remember the weight of your choker, you remember, you remember, you remember. You shiver from the cold, and you see you are not a Bird, a bird, you are yourself, falling, falling, falling._

“You really spend a lot of time blacking out, don’t you?” A voice like bells rings in your ears. You blearily peer out from behind heavy lids, seeing nothing.

“I called Magical Corrective Services and they let me know you weren’t dying, helped put your bracelet back on, but you scared the shit out of me. You called me and mumbled something about “help” and “bracelet” and I found you here, out and out, phone still mid-call. Thought you’d died already.” Her voice is sharp, piercing through the haze that occupies your brain.

You try to sit up from the edge of your bed, only to find you’ve been tucked in tightly. Trying to sit up elicits black spots inhabiting your already blurred vision. A small hand on your shoulder pushes you back down. “Not so quick, I’m not sure why you did that, but you are in no shape to get up yet.”

Eventually your eyes adjust, and you can see that you’ve been staring intently at the ceiling above your bed. There’s a cobweb in the corner. You notice your window has been turned back on. It seems more pleasant than when it wakes you up in the morning. You continue to pointedly avoid looking over, like that will somehow make you feel less embarrassed.

“You know, not looking at me won’t make me any less here.” She pauses to touch your shoulder softly. “I’m not mad you called, just a bit confused.” 

You turn your head to face her, confirming your fear. Farah is sitting on the floor next to your bed. Of all the people you could have called in your phone, all three of them, you called the one who knows you least. “I’m sorry, I took the bracelet off, and I couldn’t get it back on, and I didn’t know what it’d do. I didn’t know who I was calling, and I couldn’t lift my phone, I just dialled. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.” You blush and turn away, making your woozy head spin.

“They don’t hand those bracelets out lightly, there’s a pretty serious curse there. You must have done something irreparable or at very least something that won’t heal any time soon. Why did you take it off? How’d you take it off?” Her voice has lost the edge it carried just before.

You feel sick, irreparable. “I don’t know, I just got cut from a broken cup.” You clumsily run your fingers over the scar on both sides of your hand. 

“And what did the doctors say?”

“They never told me what was wrong, they just gave me the bracelet and sent me home.”

“Did you read your aftercare emails?”

“I read- I read some of them!” A surge of indignant embarrassment rises to your face.

“Here, I’ve got your phone, I’ll tell you what they say.” Her voice, the ringing of bells, is flat in your ears.

For the next… ten minutes? You lay in bed, getting more and more embarrassed as Farah reads you your emails, sounding clinical and cold. You turn back over to look at her, and watch her squinting just a little to read the tiny screen on your phone. She looks up at you, square in the eyes. She blanches a shade, glancing down at your hand then back. Something irreparable.

You try to speak, feeling your voice faltering, sticking to your throat. “Wh-what’s wrong?” 

Farah sits up a bit straighter, clearing her face of expression, “You have slivers of ceramic embedded all through your wrist, too small to be found. There’s been extensive damage to your muscles, nerves, and tendons. Due to your species’ non-magical restorative nature, we were incapable of repairing the internal damage sustained from the injury, and are unsure if you will ever recover. We have provided you with a bracelet that should keep the pain to a minimum, and can be used as an anesthetic if you need it. Please read the next email which covers the bracelet’s usage.” Farah’s voice hangs in the air, her eyes affixed to the screen. Irreparable. 

You both sit in silence for a while. You lay back and stare vacantly at the spider web. You can hear her voice echoing in your mind, “unsure if you will ever recover”. The arm you can no longer feel is weighted down heavily by the bracelet that hangs so lightly. You look out the window, with it’s constant morning sun streaming in, but outside it is getting dark. You watch as the skydome steadily fades from a dark magenta to an indigo. You know that somewhere out there someone is changing that colour to let people know that it’s late. You remember once, when you were very young, the sky-painters went on strike, leaving it a disturbing and brilliant green that was too bright to look at. You don’t remember specifics, just that green, much too bright, flooding your house. You close your eyes, and picture that unnatural green burning in the sky. You open your eyes, and turn to Farah, her unnatural green hair burning in your room. You hold your good hand out to her.


	5. A Folly of Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evalyn takes to physio, building back a life to keep her busy

A Folly of Fingers

Amongst all the emails that Farah had read aloud to you, there were mentions of rehab and physio appointments from the hospital. You missed your first few already, but there’s one tomorrow that you are determined to actually go to. The few times you’ve tried to use your hand has been a humiliating range of failures from fumbling your phone into the sink to shattering your few remaining coffee cups, and it galvanised your desire to go and get an even modestly functional right hand. 

The morning of your appointment you wake up steeled to the day, brimming and bright and not at all lying to yourself about how awake you are. You make a bowl of coffee and drink it uncomfortably one-handed, grab your last apple and head out the door, bustling into the cold of the morning draft. The air nips at your face and ankles, a sharp reminder that the changing of the seasons is coming soon. You spend your walk to the nearby Blue Door thinking about the utterly arbitrary seasonal changes in Ienia. It, along with sky colour changes, was originally introduced to make non-nationals feel more at home here, but both the sky colour and the temperature are completely controlled by guilds for the reason of “tradition” by this point. You used to be so incensed by the seasonal changes, dreading the heat of summer and chill of winter, that you would spend all of your allowance on temperature charms to keep yourself a comfortable 17 degrees celsius. This gave you the nickname of “warm spot” that would follow you for years, but everyone was your best friend in the depths of winter.

You get so lost in the train of thought you’re at the steps of the hospital by the time you even realise where you are. Hit with a wave of nerves, your legs are suddenly noodles beneath you, carrying you only in circles. What if you’re not good enough? What if your hand is actually irreparable? What if the… Nurse? Doctor? Physio… worker? Person? What if if they’re terrible? Fuck fuck fuck what if I can’t do this? Fuck fuc-

You get so lost in that train of thought that your nervous pacing takes you the rest of the way to the appointment and now you’re standing awkwardly talking to yourself in the waiting room of “Clinic 4: Physical Rehabilitation and Physiotherapy” (Physiotherapist. Dammit.). The lady behind the counter is staring at you expectantly as you work yourself into loops of cussing yourself out, completely unaware. 

“Miss?” The elf behind the desk raises her voice slightly and it finally gets your attention. You blush and take the clipboard that’s been brandished at you for an amount of time you’re not sure of. You wield the pen like a 2x4 in your left hand and scratch down all your legalese nonsense the best you can. Jotting down the last line you give the page a glance over. It looks like a five year old was told to give up on drawing in the lines and just have a grand old time fucking it up. You hand it back to the secretary sheepishly, who takes it, gives it a glance over, and raises her immaculate eyebrow at the scribbles you have left to her deciphering.   
You sit down in one of the pastel blue chairs and look at the sterile wall art that is hung around the waiting room. Somewhere inside you you realise it’s supposed to be art, but mostly it looks like an unrolled 90’s paper cup. 

You pull out your phone, actually feeling like you have a handle on the now cumbersome gadget. A feeling of pride is mixing with your anxiousness and driving you to text someone, anyone really, but also have you considered; two thirds of your contacts are currently definitely working, and the other third is, well, her. You would text your parents at a time like this, or maybe Oma, but… yeah, no. Time to test a new friendship, then? You scroll to Farah and write a quick text about actually making it to your appointment on time. Several minutes pass while you sit in the relative silence of the waiting room, acutely aware you haven’t got a reply yet. After a while the secretary comes and fetches you, ushering you into a small examination room. You enjoy yet more different (but identical) wall art for a short period of time before the… you still aren’t sure who you’re seeing but they’re now here.

A brief, jargony discussion later you are feeling informed but confused about the state of your hand, and now the proud owner of a rehab check-in card. The rehabilitation doctor (it was a doctor) blathers at you in a friendly, but distinctly professional, tone as you wander through the many hallways to the back of the clinic. A large open room filled with exercise equipment of many styles and complexities opens up to you, via your new card, and you are shown around to the equipment you’ll be using. There is a noticeable deficiency in the gym of non humans, an uncommon occurrence. Twenty odd humans, a single dwarf, and a pixie occupy the various equipment, it’s an awful stark reminder that humans are very much held back by their lack of sensitivity to magic. Your doctor introduces you to your physiotherapist, also a human, and you are set upon the gym. 

The exercises are simple but exhausting. Your first task is to pick up a tennis ball. You feel foolish trying to do it, but you can only just close your hand, period. After ten attempts to grasp the ball your therapist gently tells you it’s time to move on to the next exercise. Next is to touch each finger to your thumb independently. You can do your index finger okay enough, but any other finger doesn’t actually move on it’s own anymore. You’re led over to a set of toys and weird equipment to improve your left hand’s dexterity, which is immensely awkward. Your appointment goes on like this for an hour and a half, sisyphean task after pyrrhic victory. By the end you’re comparing yourself to all great sufferers of history and feeling as bleak as the winters that dogged your past. You head out into the cold waxing poetic about this and that while you absently check your phone. A reply. She replied! The weight of failure and brokenness slides from you instantly as you read the text.

“Good job, good luck with your appt. -F”

You spin yourself about in a whirl of joy, wholly and completely over-enthused about this seven word reply. Your cloud of joy evaporates quickly with the fog of exhaustion settling back onto your shoulders, you had forgotten just how utterly run ragged you are. Dragging your heels but in a contented way, you make your way home. Ten steps in the door you fall flat asleep, shoes still on, half on your shitty floor mattress, morning light still dappling down from your left-on window.

The rest of your week was spent at the rehab clinic, in the gym, or dead asleep, which you feel like is an impressive sounding life, hitting the gym er’ry day, but every time you mention it to yourself you feel like a dork. But you stick to it and by the end you’re actually grabbing that tennis ball, moving your fingers albeit not quite independently, even sort of able to write with your left hand come friday. 

The newest big problem staring you down is magic. You were always a right handed dominant caster, but now, you’re not able to cast any magic through your right hand with the bracelet on, if you could feel it at all in the first place. The past few attempts to cast your charms left handed on your morning coffee have ended with you disheartened and embarrassed. Your flow control is all shot and your dexterity is abysmal at best. You’ve blown up a few coffees, luckily not burning yourself, but you’ve also accidentally cursed one coffee causing an ever flowing fount of piping hot coffee. That little incident had you calling Magical Corrective Services to come fix the problem and also help clean up the horrific stains that ruined your already terrible floor mattress. 

MCS is generally friendly and helpful, but the stern but gentle discussion that “not all humans are fit for casting” got you a smidge riled up. That day at the gym you did your exercises with a bit of force, doing your left hand work just a little too hard, giving yourself a HUGE cramp. Faced with the fact of two painful, useless hands, you sit yourself down in a corner to fume until you can work your hand enough to actually use the door to leave. By the time you’re home you’re still incensed, the smell of coffee stained deep into your floor. You pace around your apartment, tired but feeling unable to take your usual four hour post physio nap. You pour yourself a bowl of water and ding yourself in the face with it trying to drink it. You give the bowl a stern look but falter halfway through. You’re holding it with your right hand. Clumsily albeit, but it’s holding.


	6. What's Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evalyn goes back to see Nevada to talk about her job

What’s Left

Okay. This morning, you resolve to yourself, this morning you will go back to work and talk to Nevada. You tidy up your bed, arranging the sheets and blanket neatly, you drink a pot of coffee from a cup in between cleaning up a week and a half of mess, you open the blinds and let actual light into your tiny loft. You spend so much time busying yourself around your loft you almost miss the alarm you set to leave to Nevada. You don’t actually get much done, but you feel like you did and that feel’s good.

You stride confidently down the street, the few blocks it takes breezing by. You open the door without a problem, and step into the familiar warmth of Nevada Flower’s. The air of brewing coffee and baked goods fills your lungs and you feel at home. Lini is quietly cleaning the bar, their hair is now a tempest of silver and grey, swirled and sweeping about their head. 

You walk over to the counter, “Hey Lini, is Nevada in the back?” Startling them. 

Recovering, they look up from the bar and smile at you, “Hey! Welcome back! Yeah Nevada is in the back, she’s waiting for you.” They grin and go back to cleaning the bar. 

You step around the counter and into the back room, a room you’ve only been in a handful of times. The back room goes far back, a lush, overflowing greenhouse under a hot, fake, sun. Nevada is sitting at a small wooden table with a pot of tea and two cups, steaming in spite the heat of the artificial sun. She is staring vacantly out into her garden, resting her fingers on the rim of her cup. “Welcome back dear. How have you been?” Her english sharp and clipped. She shifts back in her chair, picking up her cup, still facing her plants. You sit down, after a pause. She sips from her cup, and looks over to you. “I know that your hand does not work well, anymore. It never will again.” She places her cup back down. “I am sorry to be morose, Eh-vah, I do not want to lose you.” She looks back to her plants, glittering and green and warm. Her barky skin betrays no emotion, but her voice, foreign and foreign, hides less. “Do you think you are ready to come back?” 

You pick up your cup of tea, warm through the porcelain, with your left hand. You look towards the plants, really looking. There are coffee plants along the walls, tea plants next in, with varied berry plants down the center. The smell of moist earth and plants fills the warm, humid air. The sun is hot and unfamiliar on your face, the teacup is warm in your hand. You transfer it to your right hand. Your hand closes around it, slowly, uncertainly. The warmth of the tea lingers in your left hand, but doesn’t reach your right. You look at your hands, left hanging in the air grasping nothing, right holding the teacup steadily. You raise it to your lips, take a sip, and place it back down on the table, watching the whole time.

“I think I can return.”


	7. Renewed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evalyn goes back to work and settles into the old life she had in a new way
> 
> The last chapter in the First Act! I'm gonna take a week off to really work on the Second Act and make sure it's good and ready to publish.

Renewed

It’s four o’clock in the morning and you couldn’t be more excited to be awake! There is warm, soft sunlight filtering down on to your warm, soft bed from your enchanted window. You take a deep breath in as you sit up to stare out into the dark of the morning through the brightened shutters. You roll out of bed and stretch to get yourself ready for your first day back at your much missed job at Nevada Flower’s. You shoot a text to Farah (ignoring the gut feeling that a four am text is rude) about being excited to go back to work. The artificial morning light lifts your soul as you hustle about pouring yourself a bowl of coffee, already warm and good to go, then prep the next day's pot. Bless magic coffee pots.

You go through your daily exercises, feeling confident from your ability to hold a tennis ball in one hand without much pain, throw on your favourite hoody and head out the door into the stillness of the early morning. Gorinsson is steadily tinkering away on this thing or that, as always, and the arrhythmic beat of clanking hammers tails you down the stairs and down the block. The familiar and yet new-feeling stroll to work feels like coming home, watching lights go on one by one, poor fuckers about to be your customers. 

You approach the front door and grab your keys and you don’t have your keys. You don’t have your keys! Fuck! You check every pocket, even going as far as awkwardly groping your right hand pockets with your left hand. All to no avail. Your phone buzzes it’s “time for work” alert which only serves to increase your sudden distress. Maybe, maybe it’s already unlocked? You push on the door, wholly unsuccessfully.

You only have one way in. You have to remember, then properly cast the charm to unlock the door. With your left hand. Well, maybe you could make your right work? You stare at it expectantly, it stares back at you with a bejeweled bracelet eye. You try to summon the magic in your right hand… nothing. There’s just no way. You eye your left hand, you guess maybe a freckle stares back? You summon the magic into your hand, shaping it slowly. It sputters and flares out, going off like a camera flash that sends a tingling rush up your arm and brings spots to your eyes. You try again, slower, thinking of your physio, and hold the spell in shape long enough to push it into the door. A second passes, your heart skips in hope, then suddenly the door unlocks and slams open, hard. The bell is almost jostled straight off it’s hook and into the aether. At least casting didn’t break something this time? Regardless you step inside and gently close the door behind you.

The first few tasks of the morning go smoothly enough, grinding and brewing are easily conquered. The tables are a struggle but eventually you get them arranged. Your opening routine goes mostly undisturbed until you’re interrupted mid pastry case organising by the door bell jingling, your first customer of the day. Okay, deep breaths, you got this. You can do this with one hand tied behind your back.   
You turn to the counter and put on your customer service face only to be stopped, stunned. Farah is here, wings fluttering a little sluggishly, at 5 am sharp. She’s here. Dead-to-the-world tired but here. She grins at you, impish and sheepish at the same time, and settles to her feet at the counter across from you.

“G’mornin’ Evalyn. Glad to see you back and about.” She rubs her eyes a bit before continuing. “Can I get a strong coffee? I got your text and wanted to see you here.” Her tone is different, a bit of an accent that colours her voice a warm ochre instead of it’s usual shining brass of bells.

“Oh, um, yes for sure! Would you like it charmed this morning?” You start on pouring her coffee, settling into the script. It feels like home to perform.

She snorts out a short laugh “Gone a month and you’re still stuck in the customer service mode? I would’a thought the time off would shake you out of it.” 

You catch yourself grinning, of course she knows about customer service and it’s many protocols. “If you know about customer service mode, you know that it is impossible to shake. Now seriously, do you want this cha-” You stop mid sentence, remembering suddenly the most recent attempt to charm a coffee, and decide otherwise. “You know, never mind. The last coffee I charmed almost flooded my house. It was quite spectacular.” 

“Oh, yeah you were right handed hey? No wonder you’re blowing up charms. Yeah, no I’m fine. Just the coffee will be fine.” 

You set the coffee down on the counter and go to punch in the first sale of the day, only to finally find Nevada’s note, perched on the cash register. “Evalyn do not charge her, it is on the house. -N” Not the most confusing note she’s left, but certainly surprising. You shrug to yourself and look up to see Farah digging for change. “Oh, this is on the house. Bosses orders.”

Farah stops mid rummage and looks confused for a scant second before recomposing. “Oh! Alright, thank you! Tell Nevada I say thank you.” She is smiling, not impishly, not sarcastically, just smiling. You feel like you fumble but you aren’t moving. She takes a deep swig of the dark coffee, wings rustling under her shell as the caffeine hits her system. She stands a moment taking in the warmth of the coffee, eyes closed, and the world seems to stand still around her. She opens her eyes and they lock with yours, the gold seeming to glow just a little in the shade of the coffee shop. She’s still smiling, you are still staring. You glance away and break the moment. “Okay, thank you for the coffee Evalyn. I’m gonna go open up the shop now. Remember to come in for that ear piercing some time, yeah?” 

You feel like you’re fumbling again, you reply in some way but mostly just watch her half flutter to the door, a quick wave and she disappears behind the plethora of flowers painted on the door. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath that whole interaction.

You distractedly finish setting up the pastry case and the last few odds and ends around the shop. Some of your regular early-bird customers stop in, a few recognising that you’ve been missing from your usual post. A couple bar drinks but most people at this hour just want coffee as fast as possible. A small line starts to form in the cafe.

A short moment after five thirty Lini bustles into the shop, a flurry of greetings and pre-work preparations, obviously running late. Drinking a coffee in one hand, they run the other through their hair and the shine of magic forms it to be the colour of golden straw, falling into the easy curls of a jazz era flapper. A surprisingly tame haircut for them, but an impressive charm to pull off nonetheless. They finish their drink in one long swig, toss the mug in the bus pan, and colour spreads to their cheeks as life catches up to them. 

Very suddenly they start off, unleashing a torrent of words “Hello Evalyn! It’s been so long how are you how’s the hand how’s it healing how was your time off did you get up to anything exciting” They practically bounce over to the bar as they rapid fire ask you everything about everything, half talking over customers, not pausing to make room for you to answer until they start their first round of steamed milk. The rhythm of the bar gives some direction for the excitable elf’s energy. 

“Hey Lini, I’m okay. So glad to be back at work, you wouldn’t believe how bored I can get.” You say in a joking manner between customers, but not joking at all. “The hand is as healed as it can get, but I can use it a bit again,” you brandish your hand and put on a show typing in an order into the cash register. “See? This POS can still use the POS.” They giggle, spilling a bit of milk from the steaming pitcher. 

An easy rapport settles in between you, the kind you find with long time coworkers, the kind you’ve missed from working with Lini. They have to charm all the drinks for you, but you take over the bar when they need to do a bunch in a row. It only happens a few times, but it’s enough to make you aware of just how much you relied on your magic. They do it all with the manic grace of a gale force wind, never slowing down, never fazed. The morning rushes by, the blur of customers keeping you ever busy.

The rush slows just after eight, and you go on break at nine. Lini keeps the line moving deftly, so you settle into a corner seat and enjoy a bun and some tea. You flip out your phone and browse a bit, checking your emails and favourite sites. Nothing exciting. Your mind drifts as you scroll, ruminating on Farah’s visit this morning. You’d almost forgotten in the blur of the rush, but now that you have a moment to yourself it is starting to consume you. You pull her up and send her a short text “Thanks for stopping by, it was really nice to see you” and all that. You’re still only halfway through your break and time is beginning to drag a bit. You write and rewrite sentences in your mind, things you think you should have said. 

You’re carrying this crush pretty hard. No wonder Nevada has been pushing you to act. But dating is hard, you say half complaining, half legitimately concerned. You drag a finger along your choker, desperately aware of the problems ahead. Dating is hard as a trans woman. Dangerous. You settle back into your seat and sink into a mire of trepidatiousness, reminded all too clearly of the multitude of stories you’ve heard.

You sit there staring off into nothing trying to resolve one way or another. She works right across from you, so if it goes sideways you’ll be really close by. That’s bad. But the law is on your side if things go too bad, but that’s stressful in itself. But she’s so pretty and nice and maybe it’ll be okay? You really have no gauge for this, you’ve never dated before, never even gave it any thought.. 

Reasoning aside, your break is over. You decide to hold off on the decision of whether or not even pursuing dating is a good idea, let alone if you have the guts to pursue at all. You clean up after yourself and shake into work mode again.


	8. Act 2: Beginning Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Start of Act Two, Life begins again and continues on in new ways.

Act 2: Beginning Again

It isn’t until you get home and let go of your work day that you fully remember you had forgot your keys and managed to form a proper charm. You settle to lying down in bed and look out your magic window, currently off. Ever since you put on your collar your magic has been all different, and you understand why, but it is hard to compensate for and it’s hampered your abilities. You could make the most basic of wake-up charms, paltry stuff, but nothing like what you used to do. You spent years learning charms, theory of magic, and illusory spells. Your obsession started young, spending every spare moment learning every obscure charm you could, digging through ancient tomes hidden deep in the stacks of your home town’s public library, learning the magics that take root from your family’s homes in Poland and Ukraine. 

Then you lost that connection. To your magic, to your family, to your roots. You’ve only been out of your family home six months and you’ve felt so disparate from everything that made up your life. Now a spark of connection again. A connection outside of the window that sits beside your bed, a reminder that you put a lot of effort into forgetting. Your left hand, practically unused for 20 years, is suddenly giving you a part of your self back. You turn your hand over and examine each part with distant interest, still mostly lost in thought. You’d never really had a career path in mind from all your studies, doing simple charms in a coffee shop wasn’t The Goal but it also wasn’t not. You just studied. Had to study. Buried yourself alive in every word, diagram, and film you could find. 

You hold your right hand up next to your left. The crescent moon scars seem obvious when right next to your good hand, but faded enough that you could probably hide them easily. You do your hand exercises and watch as the scar bends and warps, pulled by the skin of your hand. You run through them over and over, intently watching your hands contort from form to form. Your right hand moves a little too smoothly, a little too slow, a little too little. Your left is fast now, strong and twitchy and a little too eager to act, but functioning. You pull up a simple glow spell in your left hand, pass it to your right, and watch it fizzle immediately, suddenly without any sustaining force.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Like you still can’t really believe it.

You sit up and look over at the box left packed since you hurriedly moved here six months ago. The box you have been ignoring since you put on the collar. The box of your books and supplies and burnt out charms from years of overuse. The box of familial magic detritus you’ve had handed down from this aunt or that uncle, family no longer in any relation. You spend a long moment staring, eyes semi-glazed over, hoping to make it less daunting somehow.

You scooch over to the edge of your bed and pull up the box and pull it close. Hugging your knees close you toy with the lid, picking at the edges of the tape that seal this indomitable container. Bit by bit you wear it down, frayed edges and pulled up tape with strips of cardboard torn free until it sits there, a worn and drab monolith of history ready to be opened. You crumple up the tape and toss it across the room, it unfurls mid air and drifts gently down in the middle of your tiny apartment. You glare at it disdainfully then turn back to the box. Deep breath, Evalyn, deep breath. You open the box and find unassuming textbooks and a Casting Circle and a few of your old temperature charms. Somehow you thought there’d be more weight to this but apparently no.

You pull out your old texts; Theory of Magic, Advanced Casting and Spell Formation, Abridged Eastern European Magical Methodology, even the handful of obscure critical analysis of charms and illusions theses from the turn of the century that you got from a library clearance. You’ve missed their weight so much. You stack them next to your bed and return to root further into the box. 

Next your old cast iron Casting Circle some aunt left you, which you staunchly refused to use. It was tooled for summoning fae and demons, a dangerous area of magic as it is, and you’ve never been good at it anyways so it was probably for the best. That side of your family obsessed over demonology, even had a family imp, but you’d seen it gone wrong once and that was enough. You set it aside too, debating even keeping it in your house.

At the bottom of the box are drifts of wrapped crystals of every variety under the dome, a handful of burnt out charms, and an early failed enchantment of yours. You had tried to enchant a set of silver wires to replace your thermal charms as bracelets, but they turned out to only faintly glow blue. They still did, oddly enough. You must have done a better job messing up than you thought you had. 

You pull everything out and start organising things into keep, maybe, and chuck piles. The pile of seven separate charms (5 thermal, 2 obfuscation) and the crystals used dry got tossed to the chuck immediately. You sort out your good jade, a small alabaster talisman, and some haematite batteries with a bit of juice left in them. You can probably get those recharged downstairs. Actually, you can probably sell whatever you don’t want to Gorinsson, he’s always buying, and it could help cover rent. 

You throw the Casting Circle into your “actually let’s sell this” pile and double check around the house for any sort of lost talismans or charms that could possibly be hidden in your barren apartment. You get excited when you see something under the tiny stove, but upon extraction you discover it to be just a pastry bag nozzle. You have no recollection of ever owning a pastry bag, let alone a nozzle for one, and wonder a little how you even know what it is. You set it aside after quickly checking for an enchantment. There wasn’t one. 

You stow your books away in a corner and promise to yourself to get something in the shape of a bookshelf for them, gather up your unwanted magical detritus, and bustle out the door. Better get rid of this stuff before you get sentimental and keep burnt out charms for another decade.


	9. Always Buying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally meet the landlord, Gorinsson, and Evalyn sheds old goods

Always Buying

You open up the door to Gorrinson’s and enter into the musty, dusty, and ever so slightly rusty De-Enchanters Shop. You really have to get his slogan out of your head. The ringing of hammers in here is a fair sight louder, and seems to rattle the thousands of vials, decanters, and flasks that inhabit the numerous shelves and racks of the store. As you walk by and read a few of the labels, you see a multitude of bottled enchantments and curses organised alphabetically, and by potency. Your eye catches a large vial of “Dragon’s Fire Curse - Extra Strength” with it’s shimmering, brilliant red seemingly barely contained by the thin glass of a stoppered flask. You don’t envy whoever has to open that. 

You walk up to the counter and ring the bell to summon the squat dwarf (even by dwarf terms) from the depths of his workshop. He calls out from the back that he’ll be a moment, accompanied by a large flash and a hail of swearing, and you’re left standing with an armload of stuff and nonsense. You drop it all onto the counter without much circumstance, and proceed to window shop some of the things displayed behind the glass case on the back wall. There are several back there you aren’t certain are legal, a money producing curse, a coma enchantment, a void enchantment, but the one that captures your eye the most is a regrowth spell. You fantasize briefly of chopping off your arm and growing a new one.

“That’ll never work, y’know. Don’t work like that.”

You jump half a foot back, trying to find the source.

“C’mon, you’re better ‘n that.”

You remember where you are and look down to the dwarf, barely three feet and barely over the counter. He steps up onto a footstool and settles his elbows on the countertop. 

“What brings ya in, t’day? I assume not the regrowth spell; it don’t work on humans aside from being property of MCS, and I assume not rent, that’s not for a little while now.”

Back to business. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff I want to sell, if you’re buying.” You know he always is.

“Y’know I always am. This whatcha got for me?” He sidles up to the small pile of goods.

“I’ve got a few interesting things in there, I think. A few charms and such.” 

Nodding, he picks up and examines each piece, carefully coaxing out the magic and inspecting it thoroughly. After going through everything but the circle, he pauses. “So two of these thermal charms are burnt out good, the spell’s’all distorted. But the others’re still in good shape so I can take them no problem. These obfuscation charms’re really something else, real expert work, heck, these’re worth buyin’ outright for studyin’.”

You silently cheer to yourself, you’d redesigned those charms in your youth using the store-bought charm as a starting point. 

“Now the charging stones I don’t have a huge need for, but I can still take’em if you want. They’re in good shape, older models I haven’t seen used in a decade or so, so a collector might take’em if one wanders in. You might get a better shot at a pawn shop or the like.”

“No, I’ll leave them with you, I don’t need them cluttering up my life for another decade.”

He laughs, “Yeah that’s fair alright. I’ll take’em.” He pauses for a second. “Now. This little guy right here.” He drags the silver circle in between you and him. “This right here is quite the piece. Like “Y’sure you’re sellin’?” sorta thing. I’ll gladly take it, for good money even, but I can’t rightly think why you’d sell it.”

You never realised it was worth much of anything, your family had piles of them.

Gorinsson picks up the circle and spins it in his fingers. “This is rune work I’ve not seen before, at least not at this complexity. Real upper level stuff. Where’d you get this? You rob a ancient tomb?” He chortles to himself.

“It’s from my family, we have plenty just lying around. This one was the hand-me-down one, the shit one of the pile because it was never my strong point.”

“Where’d y’say your family’s from?” Gorinsson leans in towards you, suddenly intensely curious.

“Oh, uh, this is from the Polish side of my family?” You lean back a little, away from the dwarf’s scrutiny.

“Aha! Figured it’d be somewhere around there. Ain’t much in the way of Eastern European magic around, and what is is locked up in the universities. Y’say your family has plenty? That’s quite interestin’, y’don’t need tons of these to summon with, hell most people only have one or just use chalk. Y’must have a pretty old family there.” Gorinsson prattles on, to himself mostly, for a while before suddenly slamming his hands down on the counter quite suddenly. “WELL. How about 625 for the lot of it? Five on the circle, fifty each on the obfuscation charms, and 25 for the rest.”

You stand there a moment. Six hundred and twenty five dollars for a pile of things you don’t want. That’s almost two months rent! That’s enough to cover you and have left over for real things! And you’ll get a paycheck holy fuck you can afford life and food again and you won’t have this crap in a box either being ignored or unpleasantly remembered. You realise you haven’t responded yet and “Yes, I will definitely take six twenty five!” 

Gorinsson grins and sticks out his hand to shake, you take it and damn near throw the poor man off his stool with your excited handshake. He quickly organises and picks up the items and wanders off to his back room. You are so excited about life and you want to go enjoy it, you should do something. You pull out your phone as Gorinsson comes back in and slaps a not insignificant wad of cash on the counter. You type off a quick text.

“Hey Farah, just came into some money, when are you available for piercings?”

Send.


End file.
